Hibernating in the Man Cave

Wednesday

“Joe got a Man Cave,” said my husband, referring to a friend of ours who, apparently, had become a Neantherthal.

“Excuse me?” I responded.

“He got a Man Cave. You know, a room in the basement that is just for him.”

“And…”

“Sounds kind of like a cool idea,” he said wistfully.

I shook my head. “You want a Man Cave? There’s a spot between the tool bench and the washing machine,” I said to him. “Knock yourself out.”

“Joe’s cave has a big screen TV, refrigerator, sound system and massage chair.”

“We have most of that already,” I said. “It’s called our house.”

He grunted and gave me a wave of dismissal as he stormed out of the room. I thought it was fitting that someone who wanted a Man Cave would, at that moment, act like a caveman.

I was playing dumb, but I knew what he wanted. He wanted his own space equipped with his own stuff where he could go to escape the teenagers and the dog and the wife. The truth was, we already had a cave. But there wasn’t much room down there for cavemen. It was the place where we stored all our out-of-season clothes, luggage and other infrequently used items, as well as the home of the laundry machines, tool bench, and old things I knew I was keeping for a reason but could not for the life of me remember what they were.

Our cave also had cave crickets… oversized prehistoric-looking versions of the kind you find outdoors. These gargantuan creatures lived in our basement and tended to jump out of the corners and scare the heck out of me when I would go down to do the laundry. There was also stuff down there that hasn’t been seen since the Neolithic Era, as well as some old electronics my husband said are “dinosaurs.” As far as I was concerned, we already had all the makings of a true caveman’s cave. Just not the kind my husband had in mind.

Nevertheless, I wanted to accommodate him. He worked hard and I knew when he got home from a day of din of the office and entered the din of the house, he would like someplace to go briefly for some quiet.

“Hey honey, we don’t really have the room to set up the basement as a Man Cave, but I know you could use a room of your own, so I created a space just for you,” I told him one day when he got home from work.

His face brightened. “Really?” Then a look of bewilderment crept across his brow. He knew every room in our house was spoken for and couldn’t imagine how I had managed to squeeze a Man Cave into our crowded space.

Beaming, I took his hand and led him down the hall.

“Ta-da!” I announced, throwing open the bathroom door.

“This is the bathroom,” he said.

“I know. But I put an Ipod in there and some reading material and a couple of snacks so it can be your own private retreat!” I replied, gesturing around at all the new accessories.

Save 15% when you order “Lost in Suburbia: A Momoir. How I Got Pregnant. Lost Myself, and Got My Cool Back in the New Jersey Suburbs” and “Rebel without a Minivan” together on Amazon! To get your copies, CLICK HERE

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“Joe got a Man Cave,” said my husband, referring to a friend of ours who, apparently, had become a Neantherthal.

“Excuse me?” I responded.

“He got a Man Cave. You know, a room in the basement that is just for him.”

“And…”

“Sounds kind of like a cool idea,” he said wistfully.

I shook my head. “You want a Man Cave? There’s a spot between the tool bench and the washing machine,” I said to him. “Knock yourself out.”

“Joe’s cave has a big screen TV, refrigerator, sound system and massage chair.”

“We have most of that already,” I said. “It’s called our house.”

He grunted and gave me a wave of dismissal as he stormed out of the room. I thought it was fitting that someone who wanted a Man Cave would, at that moment, act like a caveman.

I was playing dumb, but I knew what he wanted. He wanted his own space equipped with his own stuff where he could go to escape the teenagers and the dog and the wife. The truth was, we already had a cave. But there wasn’t much room down there for cavemen. It was the place where we stored all our out-of-season clothes, luggage and other infrequently used items, as well as the home of the laundry machines, tool bench, and old things I knew I was keeping for a reason but could not for the life of me remember what they were.

Our cave also had cave crickets… oversized prehistoric-looking versions of the kind you find outdoors. These gargantuan creatures lived in our basement and tended to jump out of the corners and scare the heck out of me when I would go down to do the laundry. There was also stuff down there that hasn’t been seen since the Neolithic Era, as well as some old electronics my husband said are “dinosaurs.” As far as I was concerned, we already had all the makings of a true caveman’s cave. Just not the kind my husband had in mind.

Nevertheless, I wanted to accommodate him. He worked hard and I knew when he got home from a day of din of the office and entered the din of the house, he would like someplace to go briefly for some quiet.

“Hey honey, we don’t really have the room to set up the basement as a Man Cave, but I know you could use a room of your own, so I created a space just for you,” I told him one day when he got home from work.

His face brightened. “Really?” Then a look of bewilderment crept across his brow. He knew every room in our house was spoken for and couldn’t imagine how I had managed to squeeze a Man Cave into our crowded space.

Beaming, I took his hand and led him down the hall.

“Ta-da!” I announced, throwing open the bathroom door.

“This is the bathroom,” he said.

“I know. But I put an Ipod in there and some reading material and a couple of snacks so it can be your own private retreat!” I replied, gesturing around at all the new accessories.

Save 15% when you order “Lost in Suburbia: A Momoir. How I Got Pregnant. Lost Myself, and Got My Cool Back in the New Jersey Suburbs” and “Rebel without a Minivan” together on Amazon! To get your copies, CLICK HERE

To become a fan of Lost in Suburbia on Facebook, Visit me here
To follow me on Twitter, visit me here

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